


056 - Fallout

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Can you do a story insipired by Fallout? I was just reading the lyrics more carefully and i realised they have some fanfic potential lol thanks!”





	056 - Fallout

You had been painfully aware from the get go that going on tour with Van was a bad idea. When he'd asked you and you had immediately agreed, there was a voice in your head. It reminded you of your mother, all the parts of you that knew best; but you didn't want to acknowledge reality. The voice said stupid! stupid! and you told it to shut the fuck up. The voice reminded you of your dislike of mess, of chaos, and of disorder. You told it Van would look after you. The voice scoffed and reminded you the boy didn't really even look after himself. 

It had started off fine in Glasgow. The novelty of the tour van hadn't worn off, you weren't sick of Van and Larry's bickering, and everyone was still clean. Something happened between Newcastle and Leeds, though. The ever expanding mess in the back of the van was becoming an issue for you. Someone had started a bet to see who could go the longest without showering. Van's constant monitoring of you to make sure you were okay had diminished and you were left to your own devices more and more. It wasn't good.

When you arrived in Leeds you were all allocated small motel rooms for two nights. You thought of it as redemption. Van carried your bags and his into the room, and dropped them on the floor. His was unzipped, and clothes and possessions scattered along the ground. You made a mental note to check under the bed before you left to make sure he didn't leave anything behind. You asked if he wanted first shower. 

"Nah, go ahead. I'll shower after the show," 

"Seriously?" you replied. He looked confused and shrugged. You couldn't be bothered having the conversation. He'd not showered in three days and if he didn't see why that was gross, then fine. When you came out of the bathroom he was searching through his bags looking for something. 

"Babe, you seen my journal?" 

"No. I am surprised you can find anything in that bag. It's probably trashed somewhere with all the other shit in the back of the van," you voice was mean but you felt like what you said was true, so you didn't feel bad. Van looked up at you from where he was kneeling on the ground. 

"What's with you?" 

"Nothing,"

"Nothing. Sure," he gave up his search and picked up his wallet and one of the two room keys. "Are you coming to the show?" 

"What?"

"Are you coming to the show?" he repeated with no emphasis or further explanation. 

"Why would you ask that?" 

"Because I am leaving and want to know if you are coming to the show," 

"I always come? Why would I not?" 

"I don't know. Fine. Come on then," he turned to leave but you stood stationary. The door was open and he looked back. "Right. Stay here and sulk then. I'll see you later." The door slammed behind him. You tried to process what had just happened. Did it count as a fight, or were you just a little pissed off? 

You fought a lot with Van, but they were always minor and resolved quickly. The worst thing about them though, was the timing. You would snap when you were most upset, and therefore when you needed him the most. He'd always push back when he was sleep deprived and missing home; also when he needed you the most. Your constant need for each other was probably the reason the fights were resolved quickly though. It didn't matter when you would fall out, or why, you loved each other enough to work it out. 

So maybe it was just a little fight and it was only really about word choices. You knelt down and started to sort through his clothes. You checked under the bed and pulled out a shirt and his journal. You sighed and put it on the bed. As you worked through the bag, folding clean shirts and making a pile of things to be washed, your hand touched something wet. You reflexively jerked backwards with a sound of disgust. You ventured into the bottom of Van's bag again and pulled out a singlet. It was drenched with what was probably (hopefully) sweat, and was making everything around it damp too. 

You stood up and held it with the least amount of contact possible. You stared at it for a good minute before making the decision. You looked through the motel room's draws and found what you needed. You walked outside and around the back of the motel. You dropped the singlet on the ground and started to light matches above it, dropping them one by one onto it. It took almost a whole pack, but eventually it set fire. You watched it burn into the cement. Someone came out a back door and ran over yelling at you. He ran inside and returned in seconds with a fire extinguisher. You said nothing as he spread off-white foam over the burning material. 

"What the fuck are you doing, lady?!" he yelled. You looked at him, turned around, and walked back to your room. 

…

It was almost 2:00am when Van came back. You were sitting on the bed, still dressed. You'd spent the past hours letting your discontent breed anger. Watching the flames did nothing to calm you. He closed the door behind him and stayed standing. 

"What the fuck did you burn?" 

You looked over. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he looked tired. 

"The disgusting singlet in the bottom of your bag," you replied calmly, and turned back to the television screen. 

"You what? Y/N! You set fire to my fucking clothes? Do you know how crazy that is? What the fuck?!" 

"It was gross, Van," 

"Then fucking wash it! Not burn it!" 

Leaving hadn't occurred to you before that moment, but when the thought popped into your head it seemed so obvious. You pulled your phone out your pocket and found Kayla's number in Contacts. You hadn't seen her in ages because she lived there in Leeds. You walked past Van to go outside. You avoided looking at him. Kayla could tell by the tone of your voice that you needed her, and she was there within twenty minutes. You waited for her out front and she came inside while you got your bag. Van was pacing when you opened the door. 

"Y/N, I-" he stopped when he saw Kayla. "You're leaving?" 

"She's gonna put me up for a while. You should, like, tidy up or something. It gets you thinking clearer. Straight, or whatever,"

"Y/N. Don't go, please. I want you here. I'm sorry about the mess and I'll be better. You know how it gets on tour sometimes. I-" 

"Van. It's not the mess... I just... it's not working, is it?" 

You walked out before he asked what 'it' was; you being on tour, or the relationship.

…

You had always been a light sleeper, and almost always struggled to fall asleep. At home it didn't much matter because something was always going to keep you up anyway; Van's guitar from the next room, the neighbours’ fighting across the road, Mary's lonely barking. At Kayla's, though, everything was still and quiet and you stared at the ceiling of her guest room. 

Van called the next morning. You should have told him not to, but he would have anyway. You spent the entire day ducking the calls. You strategically left your phone on the night stand when you went out for lunch. You left it in your room when you were watching television with Kayla. The missed calls tallied up, but you were scared if you picked up, that if you had the conversation, everything would change. You'd have to make some sort of official decision. It seemed a whole lot easier to ignore the problem. But, Van still kept calling. 

The following day was a Monday, and Kayla headed off to work. You were left alone in her apartment. The twenty four plus hours without Van had given you perspective. The whole thing, the touring, the boys, the mess... it was his life. That was the nature of his job, and his job was what he loved most. You adamantly believed it was what he was born to do, and you'd never want to change anything about him that could disrupt that life. Maybe, then, breaking up was the right thing for both of you? Maybe Van would be up for leaving it, too, if you were? 

There was a knock on the door a little past ten in the morning. You opened it, expecting a salesperson or a delivery. It was Van. You let him in without saying anything. You motioned for him to sit at the breakfast bar, and you made tea. 

"I washed all my clothes," he started. 

"Van. It's not-"

"I know. I know. But it doesn't help, does it? I'm sorry that I made you come on tour. I didn't think it through enough," 

"You didn't make me, Van. I wanted to. I... Yeah. I didn't think it through, either. I just... it's too..."

"Messy?" he finished and you nodded. "Yeah. Look, I don't want you to be unhappy, and I don't want to break up. I love you. We're okay, right? You're okay?" 

You thought about what he was asking. Not three minutes ago you had resigned to the thought that breaking up was better. Then, he did what he would always do, and call and come over and stand there all clean and pretty and lovely and kind, and you knew what would happen. You nodded and a wide smile exploded onto his face. He quickly walked to you and bundled you up in a hug. 

"Ugh. Why are you like this? I don't get it," you said.

"I was a test tube baby, remember? Nobody gets me."


End file.
